


A Mess Of Youthful Innocence

by alexenglish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Food Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Recreational Drug Use, Stoner Sciles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 16:17:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5792290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott and Stiles take a day to make pot brownies. Things don't go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mess Of Youthful Innocence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aweekofsaturdays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aweekofsaturdays/gifts).



> Dev (aweekofsaturdays) and I do this thing where every so often we have inconsolable stoner Sciles feels and commiserate about them. usually it's just [Tumblr fic](http://aweekofsaturdays.tumblr.com/tagged/stoner%20bfs/chrono) but this one wanted to be a real boy, so I let it.
> 
> the piece they smoke out of is a [zong (image)](https://www.spunkysglasspipes.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/650x/040ec09b1e35df139433887a97daa66f/1/2/12-inch-classic-2-kink-glass-glass-zong-water-pipe.png), which is just a brand of glass bongs that have a signature 'kinky' neck. zongs are the business.

Saturday is a production and Scott blames Stiles entirely. Stiles, who insisted on making pot brownies while his dad was pulling a double, insisted it was the perfect opportunity.

Not that Scott is denying that, because it is the perfect opportunity, but they’re also terrible at focusing and terrible at baking. There’s only a 45% chance that nothing will go wrong, and that lowers to 23% when Stiles drags his zong out, and gets them righteously stoned while they simmer half an ounce of weed in butter.

The only reason Stiles didn’t pour vodka down the stem and get them crossfaded is because Scott pointed out that all they do when they’re crossfaded is have raunchy sex that they barely remember, and sleep. The idea of not getting brownies is enough to dissuade Stiles from reaching for the Pop Ov -- Scott considers it job well done.

The cannabutter stinks as the weed cooks down. They have the windows tightly closed so the neighbors don’t smell it, and it’s making Scott feel itchy, pressed in by the smell -- so thick it’s almost tangible. Scott’s too stoned for his body to differentiate his senses, everything slamming around his head in mixed up sensations. Usually it’s not an issue, but this shit _stinks_. 

Stiles adds to the ambiance by climbing up on the counter next to Scott’s ingredients and sitting cross legged, cradling his zong. It’s a cute piece of glass with a fat bottom and green ‘z’ pipe leading up to the wide opening at the top, but Scott isn’t as charmed by it as he should be. It -- and Stiles -- are both very in his way. It doesn’t matter that Stiles looks at him from under his lashes every time he seals his lips to the top and takes a hit, cheeks hollowing obscenely as he sucks. 

Not even Stiles’ best blowjob face can distract from the fact that he -- and his zong -- are both _very_ in Scott’s way. Being stoned already lends an element of arousal to Scott’s, well, everything. The tingly, throbbing, weighed sensation amplifies everything. He doesn’t need Stiles distracting him like this, even if it’s unintentional.

“I thought you were helping,” Scott grumbles, shoving at Stiles until he slides along the counter, giving Scott room. Stiles blows all his smoke onto Scott’s head in retaliation, it falls in drops and waves. Or Scott thinks it does, pleasantly buzzed. Stiles’ round eyes are half lidded and bright red.

“I’m here for moral support,” Stiles says, voice gruff and sleepy, slow. It makes Scott want to nuzzle into him. When Stiles is stoned he feels softer, like he’ll mold to Scott, around him. Usually when he’s high, Scott tries to see how _close_ they can get. How hard they can press their bodies together, how deeply they can sink into each other. Maybe one of these days, their atoms will finally touch. “You know I can’t cook for shit.”

“Which is why you’re doing the mixing,” Scott says, cracking eggs into the bowl. His vision is more than a little fuzzy, sliding in and out of focus. There might be eggshells in the batter, but he decides that it ultimately doesn’t matter. 

The butter has cooked for like _three hours_. It’s thick enough to take off the stove and add to the mixture. Scott knows there’s a Kitchen Aid stashed somewhere, but he’ll wait to remind Stiles about that until he’s put in work with the whisk. 

“The whole house smells like cannabutter,” Stiles complains, placing his bong on the counter and accepting the mixing bowl when Scott hands it over. “Do you think it will air out? God, what if dad comes home and smells our pot brownies. We’d be so dead.”

“Don’t wind yourself up,” Scott mutters, pulling the zong towards him. It’s too tall to hit on the counter, so he sits on the ground with it between his legs, leaning back against the cabinet. Stiles’ foot sways against his shoulder as he lights the bowl, pulls the stem. The smoke is smooth as he sucks it down and holds it, waiting until his lungs burn to blow it out. 

When he exhales, he coughs out all the smoke, eyes watering.

“Champion,” Stiles says, in a mocking voice. His foot nudges Scott’s shoulder again. The skin under Scott’s palm is scratchy with hair as Scott cups his ankle, thumbing over the bump on the inside -- the medial malleolus, his mind supplies. He doesn’t think he would have remembered that sober. “Alpha holds his breath for thirty seconds while smoking pot. An accomplishment indeed.”

“The only accomplishment I need is to be very, very buzzed,” and get off at some point. He hasn’t tried to fuck yet because he wants the brownies to make it into the oven. They tend to get distracted if they get their hands in each other’s pants, losing time to the slow drag of skin-on-skin, the hot press of each other’s mouths. Marathon sex wouldn’t be conducive to edible making. 

“I think you’re like 77% there,” Stiles says, nodding sagely. He’s been whisking this whole time, wrist moving quickly, forearm flexing. Scott’s convinced he only has this endurance because of drumming; so much wrist action. 

“That’s kind of making me horny,” Scott says, leaning his head against the counter. He’s hyper focusing on Stiles’ hands, his arms. The way they’re so strong looking is so hot. Scott never thought he would be attracted to someone’s forearms, but Stiles’ are veiny and kinda thick, dusted with hair. He likes to watch them when Stiles jerks him off, likes to see the muscles and tendons jump under his skin. “Very horny.”

“You’re insatiable,” Stiles says, absently flicking the whisk in Scott’s direction. A glob of brownie batter lands on Scott’s face. It doesn’t register at first, but Stiles’ face goes comically shocked.

“What?” Scott asks, dazed. The mix is caught in his bangs, over his forehead. He drags his fingers through it and sucks it off anyway. Stiles watches his mouth. “The cannabutter is overpowering in this form. Too gooey. Would not recommend.”

“Oh my god, it’s just not cooked,” Stiles says, giggling and flicking the whisk again. Drops of brownie fall onto Scott’s face. He blinks rapidly up at Stiles, tongue chasing a bit that landed by his mouth. The fact that Stiles is _throwing_ it registers with Scott.

“Don’t _waste it_ ,” he says, jumping up urgently. His knees slam into the cupboards as he swerves to avoid kicking the zong. “We need to cook it. We _need_ brownies.”

“We _have_ brownies,” Stiles says, shoving the bowl in his face, only to snatch it back when Scott tries to take the whole thing away from him. The mix slides in the bowl, but doesn’t escape.

“That’s an impure form,” Scott says, trying to convey his seriousness. Stiles is definitely laughing at him, but it’s _imperative_ that they get it cooked. He’s been hyperfocusing on the idea of getting warm, chewy brownies his whole high. If they don’t get cooked, he doesn’t get a piece. Nothing would be more tragic than that. “They need to go in the oven.”

“They really don’t,” Stiles says, dragging two fingers through the batter and scooping an obscene amount into his mouth. Scott’s stuck between utter dismay and pure _want_ as Stiles’ shiny, pink tongue darts out to lick around his own fingers, slurping and sucking.

“You’re an asshole,” Scott says, trying to grab the bowl from Stiles, ignoring the way heat’s curling in his gut, at the base of his skull. The throb of arousal gets a little more urgent, harder to ignore. Stupid Stiles and his dumb mouth.

Stiles pulls the bowl away again, smirking at him. The look he’s giving Scott is downright _mischievous_. Scott knows that look, has been on the receiving end many times. He refuses to back down, stepping between Stiles’ legs, trying to wrestle the bowl away as gently as possible so that nothing spills. 

“What if I don’t want to make brownies?” Stiles taunts, holding the bowl up high. His arms are long, it’s easily out of Scott’s reach even when he stands on his toes. “What are you going to do if I just decide to eat it all.”

“I’ll _make you_ cook them,” Scott says, flashing his eyes at Stiles, giving a little growl. It’s probably not too impressive, but he made an effort. Stiles cackles and shimmies sideways, pushing Scott away so he can drop off the counter. Scott lets him, grabbing at the bowl when it comes down.

Stiles spins away, socked feet slipping on the tile. They’re both probably too uncoordinated for this, but it’s happening anyway. Stiles scoops a glob of brownie mix out with the whisk and flicks his wrist. The whole mess shoots at Scott, some of it lands between them on the floor, but most of it lands on the front of his shirt.

“What the fuck?” he asks, weakly.

“Oops?” Stiles says, but he’s still grinning, licking the whisk clean. His tongue pokes through the wire. “I told you. I don’t wanna bake them.”

“Three hours making cannabutter, Stiles,” Scott reminds him, stalking closer. Stiles inches backwards, eyes locked on Scott’s. He dips the whisk again, and gets his mouth back on it. There’s chocolate all over his mouth, stretching wide as he shoves the whole thing into his mouth. It’s gross and obscene and Scott wants to fuck his face.

“And I’m eating it,” Stiles hums, oblivious to Scott’s internal monologue. “It’s really gross, actually.”

“That’s why you should let me bake it,” Scott says, with a placating smile. He just needs to get close enough... Stiles narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t move when Scott takes a step towards him. This situation is really hilarious if Scott thinks about it hard enough, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to dissolve into giggles when he’s so close to victory. “You can even lick the bowl.”

“Promise?” Stiles asks, still suspicious. Scott grins fondly, fingers wrapping around the edge of the bowl. 

“Promise,” he says, with a gentle nod. Stiles lets go of the bowl, releasing it into Scott’s grip. He keeps hold of the whisk, but Scott doesn’t need it. He says, “thanks baby,” right before scooping out of fist full of batter and smearing it across Stiles’ cheek, down his neck, and chest. Some slaps wetly as it hits the floor, but a generous amount of chocolate is _all over_ Stiles.

“Oh fuck no,” Stiles growls, hand darting into the batter before he drags it through Scott’s hair and down his throat. Scott yelps and grabs more in retaliation, flinging it at Stiles. It lands on his forehead, clings to his hair. “Scott!”

“Sorry!” Scott says, not sorry at all. “Instinct.”

“Instinct?” Stiles scoffs, coming towards Scott and pushing him back to the counter, boxing him in with his body. Scott has the bowl held away from Stiles, but he could easily reach. He doesn’t, though, instead his head dips down and he licks over Scott’s neck. The drag of his tongue is full of purpose, lapping up the brownie mix, sucking his skin and biting into it.

Scott shudders and rolls his hips forward, hum of arousal vibrating through him. There’s chocolate and Stiles’ mouth on him, he’s already hard and throbbing. There’s an aching through his whole body, a need that simmers pleasantly. So much for brownies, Scott thinks absently, recognizing that this is going other places that are not baking.

“It’s not _instinct_ to start a brownie fight,” Stiles says, dragging his fingers along Scott’s arm, slowly pushing it down until Scott sets the bowl on the counter. When Scott’s hand is free, he maneuvers it between them, away from the bowl. His grip on Scott’s wrist is loose, but somehow still seering, impressing into Scott’s veins. “Especially when we paid so much for the weed that’s in it.”

“S’not going to waste,” Scott says, leaning forward to lick at the chocolate on Stiles’ cheek. Stiles makes a soft sound in his throat, a content rumble like a purr as Scott cleans him up with his mouth. If he sucks a hickie into the skin at Stiles’ jaw, Stiles is none the wiser. “I’ll eat it off you.”

He grabs Stiles’ hand and guides it to the hard line of his cock as he mouths over Stiles’ batter-covered skin. It’s smeared across his neck, his face. There’s a bit on his ear that Scott sucks off before he drags his teeth over Stiles’ earlobe, making him whine, pawing at Scott’s dick through his shorts.

“Brownies,” Stiles reminds him, but it sounds weak. Scott grins and nuzzles his cheek, probably transferring chocolate between their skin. His hand finds the batter again, and he dips in. Instead of doing something messy like stick it down Stiles’ shirt, Scott bumps his fingers to Stiles’ bottom lip. Stiles’ tongue darts out to taste them. “Suck it.”

“Bossy,” Stiles mutters, but he takes Scott’s fingers in his mouth anyway. His tongue is silky and wet, carressing Scott’s fingers, before he sucks them in his mouth. It’s like there’s a direct line from Scott’s fingers to his dick, nerves jumping. The look Stiles is giving him is hot, wanting. Scott practically yanks his hand away so he can kiss Stiles, one hand sliding into his hair while the other grips his hips desperately. 

Stiles grins against his mouth, letting Scott lick his teeth as he nudges his cock against Scott’s. They’re sealed together, batter all but forgotten as they grope at each other. Scott shoves his hand down the back of Stiles’ shorts to drag him closer by his ass, fingers playing along his crack. Stiles’ breath stutters out of his throat, ghosting over Scott’s jaw. 

“Do you want me to be bossy?” Scott asks, voice warm in his throat. He feels likes he's humming, like they're thrumming on a different wavelength together, like every place that they touch is vibrating. “Suck my dick.”

“Fuck off,” Stiles says. Scott knows it's just to be contrary, that he doesn't mean it; his voice is high and breathy, like he can’t quite contain himself. Stiles likes being told what to do, likes having the control taken away from him. All Scott has to do to get Stiles to show his belly is tell him to roll over.

“Suck my dick,” Scott repeats, teasing his mouth over Stiles’, making him chase Scott's lips. “Please?” 

He presses down on Stiles shoulder gently, feels when Stiles caves, body going lax as he drops. Scott will never get over seeing Stiles on his knees, the way he looks as he nuzzles Scott through his basketball shorts, mouthing at the tent his dick is making. 

He pulls back when Scott hooks his hand in his waistband and pulls it down enough so that his dick springs free. Stiles watches with dark eyes as Scott adjusts everything. When Scott slides his hands into Stiles’ hair, he leans forward and licks along Scott's shaft, making him gasp. 

Stiles never hurries. That's not something Scott could tell him to do. Stiles likes sucking dick. They had an extensive conversation about it once when they were fucked out and stoned; he likes the weight of Scott's cock in his mouth, the heat of it, likes the stretch of his mouth, the claustrophobic feeling of having something shoved so far down his throat. 

Scott could never complain about it. Ever since they discovered blow jobs, the function of mouths on dicks, Stiles has been perfecting his oral. It started with a hair trigger gag reflex, so sensitive he could barely get Scott’s dick down. Now, it’s pretty damn close to perfect. Stiles can almost deepthroat, can almost stand getting his face fucked vigorously. He just lets everything go slack, lets his throat open up, lets Scott do _whatever_. It's beautiful, incomparable to anything Scott has ever felt.

The opening of his throat flutters around the head of Scott's cock as he takes him in, drools around his shaft so everything is wet and messy and easy. He pulls back enough to caress the underside of Scott’s shaft, spit dribbling out of his mouth. 

Beautiful.

“Are you gunna make me come?” Scott asks. His hands are both still tangled in Stiles’ hair, not steering him, just feeling him move. All of his atoms are zeroed in on where he disappears into Stiles’ mouth, stretches out his lips. Stiles pops off with a smirk, hand coming up to jack Scott lazily.

“Am I?” he asks.

“Are you going to fuck me?” Scott asks, because he’d like that, like being stretched out around Stiles’ dick. They could fuck slow, easy. Or Scott could push Stiles onto his back and ride him into oblivion. “Let’s do that.”

“Do? The fucking?” Stiles asks, popping up so fast he nearly headbutts Scott. 

“Yeah, the fucking,” Scott giggles, kissing Stiles in a way that’s more like enthusiastic licking. He forgot they were both still covered in brownie batter, too distracted. “Brownies.”

“Yeah, we should,” Stiles backs away and turns the oven on, raising his eyebrows at Scott. It only takes a minute to dump the remaining batter into the greased up baking sheet they already had out. It’s not as bad as Scott thought it was going to be, but the brownies will be… thin.

“Set the timer, and the alarm on your phone,” Scott says, snatching up Stiles’ phone to do just that. He has no idea when Stiles made a picture of his ass the home screen wallpaper, but he doesn’t have time to examine that. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Stiles says, sliding the brownies in and slamming the oven door.

“Okay!” Scott grins and surges forward, grabbing Stiles around the waist and slinging him over his shoulder. He’s light as hell, but squirming and laughing, his long limbs get in the way of everything. There may be a couple of times he gets knocked into the wall, but he doesn’t complain, just gropes Scott’s ass as Scott carries him upstairs. 

They fall into bed still giggling, Scott doesn’t know how they make it, but they do. They pull each other’s shirts up. Stiles gets his arms tangled, snickering as Scott yanks at the fabric. He’s too stoned for this, so he shreds the fabric with his claws, flinging the pieces away. There’s a loud protesting noise from Stiles, but Scott’s 92.5% sure that it was his shirt in the first place.

Stiles squirms and shoves his shorts off, half hard cock lying against his leg. Scott still has a full blown boner, popping up when Stiles leans back and yanks his pants off. They’re both blissfully naked, still covered in brownie. Everything smells like chocolate and spit and precome and arousal as they come back together. Through the laughter, Stiles’ mouth finds his, licking its way inside. Scott hiccups into it, biting down on another laugh as Stiles’ teeth drag over his bottom lip. 

“You should finger me,” Scott suggests. There’s a 56% chance he’s just being lazy, thrilled by the way he’s vibrating under Stiles’ touch. His whole body feels heavy, his head feels light. The contrast is driving him crazy, he wants Stiles in him and around him, grounding him. 

“So demanding today,” Stiles says, but he rolls them over, putting Scott on his back. He drags his fingers down Scott’s torso, slowly like he still needs to commit Scott’s body to memory -- there’s absolutely no way that Stiles hasn’t done that already, but if he’s hyperfocusing on touching Scott then Scott can’t complain. 

He leans down to suck Scott’s nipple into his mouth, making Scott arch hard, hands scrambling against Stiles’ shoulders. It’s an eternity before Stiles moves to the next nipple, laving it with his tongue before he finally slinks down Scott’s body. He drags his mouth all over Scott’s stomach, gnaws on Scott’s hip, ignoring the way Scott’s nudging his pelvis up so his dick will tap Stiles’ face.

“Baby,” he whines, equal parts obnoxious and desperate. Stiles’ eyes flick up to him quickly, smirking, before he presses a surprisingly chaste kiss to Scott’s hip bone. He rocks back towards the edge of the bed, slinging himself over. There’s a half empty bottle of lube under there somewhere.

When he pops up, he makes a cute victory noise and bats at Scott’s legs so he spreads them wide. He presses gentle kisses to the inside of Scott’s thigh, slicking his fingers up with lube. The first one sinks in easily and Scott sighs around it, body going lax for Stiles. 

“So good,” Stiles says, low and absent like he doesn’t need Scott to hear it. He licks up Scott’s cock, sucking it into his mouth while he adds another finger and scissors Scott open. Scott shuts his eyes, lets himself feel the drag of Stiles’ fingertips in tandem with his mouth. 

All the arousal pools at the bottom of his stomach, like he’s about to drop off the edge of a roller coaster. All his attention is on the way Stiles feels, the way he moves. All of Scott’s senses focus on Stiles, the way his heart pounds, the way he’s breathing through his nose as he slurps around Scott’s dick. 

It’s too much and not enough, that amazing and awful contrast coming back full force. He needs more and less and all of it and nothing. Scott doesn’t really understand why he’s so overwhelmed, but he lets himself slide into it, lets Stiles hold him up. 

“I can’t wait to fuck you,” Stiles says, coming up for air, another finger joining the others. Three is always more of a stretch, more of a fill as Stiles angles his fingers up and searches for Scott’s prostate. Scott mewls when his fingers bump against it. “‘S gunna be so fucking good.”

“Then fuck me,” Scott says, arching an eyebrow at Stiles. Stiles stares at him, mouth dropping open, eyebrows furrowing. 

“What if I don’t?” Stiles asks, a little cocky. Scott’s dick jumps as he fingers Scott a little harder, a little faster, like he’s threatening to get Scott off without sticking his dick in him.

“Then I’ll fuck you,” Scott threatens, feeling smug when Stiles’ face goes more confused, eyes darting between his hand and Scott’s face. 

“Okay, but you’re almost stretched, I feel like that would be a wasted opportunity.”

“I think you misunderstand my intention,” Scott says, voice dropping to a purr. Stiles is still staring at him in a way that reminds him of a concerned kitten -- when they know you're going to do something and don't know if they'll like it. It's a look Stiles wears often.

“I don’t…” Stiles trails off as Scott sits up, making Stiles’ fingers come out of him. Stiles looks absolutely dejected at that, but lets Scott push him onto his back. It’s not until Scott’s lining Stiles’ dick up with his entrance that Stiles realizes what’s going on.

He makes a small noise of realization, a soft “oh” in his throat, lets his head fall back. His throat jumps when he swallows, eyes screwing shut as Scott sinks down on his cock. The air above Stiles is less stifling, clears up that urgent feeling that was coursing through Scott. The stretch wasn’t _quite_ enough, and Scott feels the burn of it, but Stiles used plenty of lube and it goes away almost instantly. 

Scott rocks down, rolling his hips and positioning himself on his knees. He falls forward, grabbing Stiles’ hair at the top of his head and steering him into a filthy kiss. The kiss is far more demanding than the his slow grind, teeth scraping Stiles’ lips. Stiles just goes along with it, mouth pliant and open for him as he sucks Stiles’ tongue into his mouth. 

“You’re so good,” Scotts says, a little smugly, echoing Stiles’ words earlier. Stiles groans, hands coming up to grip Scott’s waist. The touch is bruising, Scott relishes the way Stiles’ fingertips dig into his skin, grip his ass. He leans up and walks his fingers down to where they’re joining, prodding Scott’s rim where he’s stretched around Stiles.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, sitting up completely, winding his arms around Scott as they reposition. Scott grabs his hair and rocks down, uses his thighs to move now that he’s pinning Stiles’ hips down in a new way. This position makes it harder for Stiles to come, more of a challenge for Scott, but it means they fuck for longer -- means that Scott gets to feel the hot drag of Stiles’ cock for longer, gets to ride the high of them together for longer. 

His hips move without urgency, lifting and dropping himself on Stiles’ dick slowly, torturously slow. He focuses on cleaning the remain batter off Stiles’ face with his tongue. It’s dry, so it takes some time, but Stiles lets him, nuzzles against Scott’s face when he can. Scott almost forgets Stiles is inside him as they kiss, as Stiles absently runs his hands all over Scott, tugs at his dick lightly. 

The penetration is lost in the haze of Stiles’ touches, the movement of their mouths. Scott feels every individual hair under his fingers as he tugs on Stiles’ hair, tastes the desire on Stiles’ tongue. It’s like the merging of galaxies when they touch. The world settles, is right and perfect and beautiful when he can feel Stiles’ skin under his hands. 

Loving Stiles puts a pressure under his ribs, gently ballooning outwards as a reminder. Not that he could ever forget. Loving Stiles is an intrinsic part of him, something that’s written into his very DNA, imprinted into his bone marrow by the powers of the universe. He feels it the most when they’re like this, with Stiles deep inside of him, their hands roaming over each other.

It’s just them in the moment. They’re the only people in the world. They don’t have to think about anything else. 

Scott can’t think of anything more beautiful than that. 

“Wanna come?” he asks Stiles, after a few more kisses, after he’s gotten most of brownie batter off Stiles’ face with his mouth. Stiles’ skin is red and raw, streaked with chocolate and spit. They’re going to need a shower. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, one hand gripping Scott’s hip and the other circling his dick so Scott has a warm space to fuck up into as he starts to ride Stiles harder. Stiles can’t thrust into him, so he just goes lax, lets Scott use him. “Please.”

It’s not a question or a demand, it’s said like a wish that Stiles needs granted so Scott shoves him back down and waits for him to settle before riding him ruthlessly. Stiles’ hands scramble at his hips before dropping to the sheets and grabbing at them, gripping them tight as Scott works him. Scott keeps himself up with his thighs, fisting his dick in time with his movements.

Stiles comes with a surprised shout, body bowing towards Scott. The smell of come bursts all around Scott and pushes him over the edge. He comes across Stiles’ stomach and chest, adding to the streaks of chocolate there.

“Fuck, Scott,” Stiles says, chest heaving. “Goddamn.”

Scott gives Stiles’ thigh two gentle pats as he rolls off his lap and onto the bed. He feels the come and lube leak out of him onto the sheets, too tired to give a shit about it. The throb in his thighs fades, but he’s still breathing fast, caught in the heavy afterglow of their mutual orgasm.

“Shit,” Stiles says, dragging his fingers through Scott’s jizz and making a face, wiping it on the bed next to him. “Fuck, did we burn the brownies?”

Scott sniffs the air, smells rich chocolate and the heat of the oven over top the smoke from the pot, the combined scent of the two of them on the bed. Nothing’s burning or close to burning.

“Nope.”

“Fucking miracle,” Stiles says, turning on his side to curl into Scott. His stomach leaves sticky come on Scott’s side. It’s kind of disgusting, in a frightfully endearing way. Scott turns and nuzzles against Stiles’ cheek, licking at his skin again before kissing him sweetly. 

“We should take a shower.”

“Probably,” Stiles says, nudging his hips against Scott’s thigh. “But I can probably go again in like 5 minutes.”

“Insatiable,” Scott teases, but he could get hard again in less time. A teenager’s sex drive and a werewolf’s refractory period is the best combination. “Maybe we should wait until after the brownies are done. There’s a 89% chance we would definitely burn them if we fucked again.”

“Deal,” Stiles says, wrapping himself more tightly around Scott, practically purring as Scott drags his fingers through the short hairs at his nape. “I’m going to eat them _all_.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me at [queerlyalex](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/) and cry about the stoner babes with me.


End file.
